Cult of Crime by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online Page A

the mountain, called Pickwee. We’ll get in touch with the police there and have them escort you home. Then the Rajah won’t be able to get his hooks into you again.”
    She winced at the mention of home and uncurled her body, shivering. “Hold me, Frank,” she said, and he put his arm around her shoulder. She rested her head on his chest and sighed.
    “I don’t want to go home,” she declared. “I don’t ever want to see my father again. Just let me stay with you, Frank.”
    Frank’s mouth dropped open. For once, he didn’t know what to say. In the driver’s seat, Joe grinned, and the black van continued down the mountain.
    The town of Pickwee had existed since the Revolutionary War. Originally one of the few coach stops in the Appalachians, it had become the home of a number of shops that served the farmers in the mountains. As a result, the town closed up when the sun went down, with only a bar and a gas station staying open late in the evening.
    Joe pulled the van into the gas station and up to a pump. No one was around, and if not for a light on in the office, he would have thought the station was closed. He tapped the car horn twice, but there were still no signs of life.
    Finally, after Joe had climbed out of the truck and started pumping gas himself, a dark-haired man in a checked shirt and blue jeans sauntered out from behind the station.
    “What’s your hurry, young fellow?” he asked Joe.
    Inside the van, Frank heard the man. Holly had fallen asleep, using his chest as a pillow. Carefully he slipped out from under her, cradling her head in his hands. He lowered her head to the floor, and when he stepped out of the back door, she still slept peacefully.
    She looked angelic, a child, but Frank couldn’t think of her as a child anymore. She was warm and soft, and … He rubbed his eyes and tried to think of Callie, but her face kept blending in his mind with the face of Holly Strand.
    Frank shut the back door and locked it. The station owner looked at him, then at Joe, then back at Frank, and he stepped back, suddenly wary.
    “I ain’t got no money, if you’re thinking of robbing me,” the station owner said. “You kids ain’t looking for trouble, are you?”
    “We’re looking for a policeman,” Frank said. “Any idea where the police station is?”
    “Heck, that’s closed this time of-night,” the manager replied. “Don’t need it much up here. Sheriff Keller, he’d be in the bar by now. A fellow just ran over there with a message for him, matter of fact.”
    “Thanks,” Frank said. He looked around. The bar was a block away, a brick building with tiny windows and a flashing neon sign in front of it. “Cruise on over and wait for me when you’re done filling up, Joe.” Joe nodded.
    As he neared the bar, Frank heard shouting. There was also muffled music, the sound of a jukebox turned low. Through the window, Frank could see a burly, bearded man pacing back and forth. He was screaming at no one in particular, and his long blond hair bobbed up and down as he walked.
    His back had been turned when Frank entered, and before he noticed, Frank slipped around him and up to the bar.
    “Don’t worry about him,” the bartender said to Frank. Like the screaming man, the bartender had a beard, though his was dark and crinkly. Between his teeth was a toothpick, and he leaned against the bar, leafing through a magazine.
    “That’s Hobart. He’s harmless, unless you step on his toes or try to steal his stuff. What can I get you?”
    “I’m not old enough to drink,” Frank said. “I’m looking for Sheriff Keller.”
    “You came to the right place,” the bartender said. “Sheriff Keller’s the coffee guzzler in back.” He pointed to a row of booths along the back of the barroom. In one of the booths sat two men dressed in police uniforms. The older, who must have been fifty, had graying hair and a wiry mustache. Keller, Frank guessed. He wore no tie, his collar was unbuttoned, and